An Obsession in Parts
by syndicatev
Summary: It's kind of a big deal. It might almost be a problem. Hawke lavishes attention on her affianced in parts, in chapters that hint at a whole. (F!Hawke/Sebastian)
1. Hands

**A/N:** _Currently waiting on my beta to wake up. In the meantime, let's see if my somewhat-sleepy mind has done something awful?_

_This story may or may not be the start of something larger. It was an abandoned idea, but, because I recently reactivated ZenWriter, I was able to reunite myself with the idea and all the warm squishies that came with it._

_You see me writing for Sebastian now, but trust me when I say that I'll be turning towards the more taciturn in no time.  
_

* * *

_Hands_

Each one is large and brawny, with little auburn hairs dotting the backs of each one, leading to near-bare wrists before heading towards the longer, more numerous ones on his arms. The contrast between not-quite-tanned skin and not-quite-black hairs is a point of constant interest to me; I'm always staring at them.

I pride myself on always knowing where his hands are when he's with me. They'll clutch at my chin, slide down to my shoulders before pulling me in, the hairs sometimes tickling my skin if it is readily available. I'm not terribly ticklish, but it always gets to me, every single time. He'll offer a smirk in return before those same hands travel around and meet at the segment of skin lying between my shoulder-blades. I'll sigh, pressing my own hands against his chest, my ear barely scraping a cotton-covered pectoral. I'll hitch myself on my tiptoes, hoping that it won't be noticed, but it always, _always_ is. Then, I'm treated to the sound of a booming laugh, lilting with the hints of his ancestry. _It nearly sounds musical._

Without fail, one hand will stay pressed to the small of my back, the other moving to have a firm grip on my hip. Not in a lascivious manner; he is always quite careful to let me know his intentions are nothing if not _sickeningly noble_. And it always nags at me, this deep adoration for a woman other than I, makes me realize the parallels between the prophetess' husband and I. It makes me touch the proud man before me, tentatively, on his neck. I cannot allay this fear I have that he is made of something tender, something inherently beautiful and that I may sully it with my roughened ways and lack of effortless grace.

So tender, and yet I touch him to tempt him. I flick my thumbs behind his ears, only barely aware when my feet rest back on the ground and his laugh has been cut short, not quite paying the fullest of attentions when he leans over me. The fingers against my waist are still innocent, curled against my pelvis, but they dig deeper. The other hand clutches at the back of my tunic, fisting the soft cotton in a warning.

I watch his lips as they move. They are beautifully-shaped, the top bowed in that sort of manner that quite a few maidens would murder for. They part, exposing the barest hints of white teeth before they close again, repeating this dance over and over for as long as he speaks.

I am still pressed closely to him, perhaps obscenely so for public onlookers. Of course, such a spectacle is only allowed in private, where I feel only the slightest twinges of guilt for pressuring him so, without words.

His own words bring me from my reviere, sharply and soundly.

"What are you doing, Hawke?" His brogue (Or is it called a burr in Starkhaven? I must resolve myself to find the difference!) sharpens from its former laziness, quirks his vowels onward from their flow tugging along. My thumbs move from his ears to the strands of red tickling the nape of his neck, while my other fingers delve into the coppery locks, marveling at the contrast of the color against my skin.

A response comes fairly quickly, and it is spoken against his lips, right before I press my own against them, aiming for a chastity that never appears to stay simple purity for long.

"Enjoying you."

His hands tighten, both move to my waist, and he_ pulls_.


	2. Eyes

**A/N: **_I'll admit to losing steam on this halfway through. Would've went longer, but I shrugged and ended it just...kind of as-is. By-passed my Beta again, as I'll be poking and prodding her to make my Guild Wars 2 stories look presentable. One should be posted before the year is through, pfft. _

* * *

_Eyes_

Truthfully, they're quite striking. They flare brightly-brilliantly-whether he's in the heat of battle or simply enjoying the altogether different heat of a debate. The teal, such an already vibrant color, would sizzle, spark to a renewed life.

And I understand once more, as if I'd ever gotten a chance to forget, that he is incomprehensibly lovely. Pretty as a painting, wicked as sin, as pristine as...a chantry boy? No, no, too easy of a comparison to make. I do know, however, that if he were at Lothering's Chantry, I'd be much more keen on the Prophetess and the Maker. In any case, I'd understand the whole "self-sacrifice" slant much more.

I stifle a chuckle, albeit not completely, and end up letting out a strangled cough. My fist comes up to beat at my chest, which only serves to throw me into a fit. Those eyes, so gently framed with long honey-red lashes (Maker, but he's gorgeous) widen just the slightest bit in surprise, head swivels, body moves in an immediate form of action. He is at my side in mere moments, one hand soothingingly stroking my back, the other cupped underneath my jaw, gaze firmly stuck on me.

"Is everything alright?" The lilting cadence of his voice is soothing-as it always is-and strikes me to smile though my eyes are watering at my recent fit of coughs. I bring up my hand to pat his cheek in an attempt to appease.

_It's fine; I'm fine_, I assure him, accepting the mug of ale Varric hands to me (but not without a mocking jeer). A swig ensures the sudden dryness of my throat is abated, as is the flaring of teal irises. Still, Sebastian relocates his chair to my right, a sweet, if unnecessary, gesture.

He believes I do not notice, but those teal distractions flit to me constantly after that. I won't pretend it didn't please me terribly that he fretted after me. My hand drifted to his knee, the barest hint of a smirk playing at my lips.

How very..._cute_.


End file.
